Upon a time, my love, a diary
Of paper, stained with words set down in ink;
Revealing all a boy might feel, and think,
And strive, and pray, and wonder what might be;
That, would he, worthy of thy love, decree?
On paper, yes; but also on the brink–
Withholding nothing more–profess; and think,
If then not worthy, tears he shed for thee
Would blur his ink; such tears as fell like rain
To paper; ran his words, as ran his heart,
Cascading down, as rivers, all his pain;
So mixt with joy, and hope we would not part.
Yet now, his tears, upon a keyboard, fall,
Not mixt with joy, nor pain, nor seen at all.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all: